Burning Incense

Dear God,

How is it that I can live in your soul, crash against your bones, and yet, still, look right past you?

How is it that you can move my hours, my fingers, my eyelids, and I can forget that these hands are your hands?

Will you come and stitch this heart, to yours, a little closer, tighter, nearer, dearer?
Make these lungs inhale spirit, exhale prayer?
I would be a patchwork monster; your eyes, your hands, your lungs, grafted onto my own, that this lurching body might know grace.

Come. Come. Come now.